


Tax Me for A Wizard (I have Done no Harm)

by lonerofthepack



Series: To Fall Next Upon Salem, and So Go On [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Meet-Cute, Recovery, The Niffler Makes a Friend, You'll need a permit for those creatures Mr. Scamander, implied harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 07:54:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18567127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonerofthepack/pseuds/lonerofthepack
Summary: The Director wanted a word. Apparently.Oh dear.





	Tax Me for A Wizard (I have Done no Harm)

**Author's Note:**

> It was with great consternation that I realized that Giles Corey would not be able to participate in the Fantastic Beasts Calendar due to content restricts. So! I present you with the finest Gramander fluff, now starring more Niffler and Percival in glasses.

 

 

The Woolworth Building was just as unrepentantly _conspicuous_ as it had been the last time he’d set foot in it. Thick with tension, and boisterously overloud--as if the stress of keeping their magic hidden away from the Muggles could all be made up for with excess here, the moody ceiling and the maddened swooping of paper notes and the dizzying rush of witches and wizards everywhere.

Overbearing, really. Which, from a Hogwart’s alum, said something.

Popping by--well. _Reporting in_ to have his wand permitted and hash out the issue of his luggage--had not actually been his intention, after the fuss of last year. Actually, he’d planned on being in New York only just long enough to transfer from one ship to another, destined for the eastern tip of Cusco, Peru.

But it seemed that Theseus was playing the role of interventionist again, and tipped off his American counterpart: Tina Goldstein and another American auror--an Officer Delgato, if he recalled correctly, had been awaiting his arrival at Customs on orders to escort him to the Woolworth Building.

Not that it wasn’t lovely to see her, of course, but--

The Director wanted a word. Apparently.

Oh dear.

 

The Aurors bullpen was much the same as any of the dozens across the globe, smelling of stale coffee, leather polish, and the steel-sweat funk of adrenaline and magic; he caught a glimpse of it, as Tina and Officer Del-something escorted him up to the desk of a small, roundish witch with her hair all pinned up in an impressive pompadour knot.

“You go right on in, dear,” she said with a nod, as if it was _his_ idea to be here.  

Bullpens rarely improved for lingering, in his experience, and he didn’t especially wish to linger in this one, either. But being hustled through first a Side-Along, and then the Woolworth’s atrium, and then practically frogmarched through the Auror Department, with both of the aurors flanking him talking a mile a minute and neither of them particularly careful about knocking the case-- _well_. It seemed the Americans were feeling a bit...keen, after the unpleasantness over the winter.

It wasn’t _quite_ as unpleasant as having been taken to the cells beneath the building, or the actual room for the interrogation, but he didn’t much care for the experience, either; certainly not when it ended with being shoved through an unfamiliar, seal-of-MACUSA emblazoned door.

Emblazoned doors were always such a bad sign.

The office of the American Director of Magical Security had been as austere and cold as a winter’s night the last time he’d seen it, through the press of Queenie’s memories. Her way of catching them up on a very tight timeline had been brutally effective, even if it had left him with a headache for days afterward. It was possible she’d found the the office a bit darker, a bit emptier, generally more oppressive than it actually had been. He’d been rather preoccupied himself, and very troubled by having had his case in the hands of a Head Auror of any sort.

The room he had been shoved into was... rather different than Queenie’s memory.

Rather...entirely more alarming, in some ways.

The difference lay in the _mountains_ of document boxes stacked neatly behind the desk, the foothills of paper on the desk, and a pathetic looking aloe plant hiding in a pot on a side table. Grindelwald’s use of the space had left the desk nearly bare, looming out of the shadows from the high windows, prioritized the threatening display of instruments and artifacts in the cases along the wall; now they were neatly defanged, smothered behind acres of paper and the spring light coming in through the windows.

Newt quelled a gentle shudder.

The man behind the desk seemed much the same--remarkably similar to his imposter in physical looks, but not in manner: he hunched over his paperwork with the same general mien as a hyena over a kill, not at all like the sprawling, expansive posture Grindelwald had used in interrogation.

The slam of the door was what made the man look up from his prodigious pile of paper, an eyebrow already cocked at the disturbance--a stern expression from behind wire frames that didn’t so much suggest as promise a tongue-lashing for the offense. If Newt’s shoulders hadn’t already been up around his ears in a prolonged flinch, that look on the Director’s face would have put them there.

It was purely coincidental, noting that Grindelwald had gotten ‘displeasure’ wrong on that face--it was a flatter look on the genuine article, narrow through both eyes and lips, carrying its power through a laser-focus stare and the sardonic tip of an eyebrow. And while this Percival Graves’ face didn’t seem to lack humor entirely, there was none of the cold fascination Newt remembered, an expression he’d usually found in children ripping off fly’s wings.

What was not coincidental, what was battering around his braincase like a bat stuck in a owlery, was that the American Director of Magical Security didn’t accept messes in his department. Not if international rumor and his auror escort were to be believed.

Newton Scamander was nothing if not a mess.

“Ah,” is what Graves said, though, all he said, and he put the paper aside immediately, before Newt could even quite manage to corral his tongue to put it to use. The glasses came away, which didn’t soften his face or manner in the least, and Newt found himself being _assessed_ , while Graves took his time folding the arms of the spectacles with deliberation.

Oh, dear. That was.... Well. Hmm.

“Mister, um. Mr. Graves, I.” His voice was tiny yet somehow echoing in the forbidding space. It wasn’t for lack of trying that his shoulders couldn’t climb any higher.

“I apologize for the disruption, Mr. Scamander; I assure you, I’ll be brief.” The Director’s voice did no such thing, even and penetrating across the cold expanse.

He couldn’t entirely help angling his body in front of the case, clutching it a little tighter. The Director walked like an auror, after all.

“If this is about last year, I--”

\--well. He limped like an auror, as he rounded the desk, weight balanced evenly through shoulders and hips--definitely still recovering from a leg injury though, his movements were ginger and slow as he rose, and a tendon corded in his neck when he took a step too quickly. He didn’t grimace, but reached with careful deliberation for the cane propped against the desk, apparently needing it even for the few strides between the desk and where Newt hovered near the door.

It felt a far smaller office than he sort-of-remembered, filled to the brim with paper, with its rightful occupant wielding such presence as to bend the space around him as he approached.

Remarkable, though, that Graves seemed to be using the same sort of subtle posturing as a dominant hippogriff, just the angle of his shoulders and the quiet solidity of his magic filling his territory absolutely. Posturing in primates tended to be a louder, more aggressive affair--

Oh, no, he really had to stop doing that--it never ended well, trying to link human behaviors to creature origins. Inevitably it slipped out and got somebody's back up

“It is regarding the events of last year,” Graves agreed, lifting a file from under a paperweight as he rounded that nightmare-fuel desk. How he could discern it from any of the others flooding the surface, Newt had no notion. Graves took another careful step, balanced and deliberate, just close enough and no closer, and extended the file. “But you aren’t in any trouble, Mr. Scamander. This is rather more in the nature of reparations.”

Newt blinked, and then blinked again, studying the man more closely, fingertips just brushing the stiff card paper.

As well-dressed as Grindelwald had portrayed him, in dark, stark colors--loose on him still, though impeccably tailored in with a few subtle charms. Though, the contrast of magical tailoring against the muggle-style of the rest of that sharp suit was slightly jarring. Still on a recovery diet, Newt assumed, hoping to regain the lost mass. It didn’t suit him, to be so thin through the face. His hair was longer, beginning to flirt with too long, though the product he used still contained it--the sides were shorter, the same way Grindelwald had kept them, but brilliant silver rather than salt-and-pepper. It had been aggressively combed, the furrows lingering despite the brilliantine, slightly jagged from one another where they presumably concealed the shorter patches that had been clipped away for Polyjuice.

If he’d lost his mind--and it wasn’t impossible, given that he’d just implied that _Newt_ was owed _reparations_ \--there wasn’t any immediate outward sign of it.

He spoke differently--like a diplomat, not a visionary. And not like an adherent of one, either. Softer in volume, and he seemed to weight words like he was being charged gold for every one.

And he moved like one of Newt’s rescued creatures; ginger, wary. Defensive. There was a fine tremor in his hands as he passed over the file; spellwork and potions still working to repair delicate bones and fragile tendons. A shame; he had lovely hands.

The curse of being an auror’s brother, he supposed, that he had noticed it, when the Director was clearly working to conceal the damage; Graves twitched slightly under his regard, the fingers that had been holding the file curling to a fist at his side. Newt hastily averted his eyes when the Director retreated a step, his shoulders shifting differently. Hard to blame him for being sensitive to any attention; if the face was the identity of a wizard, then the hands were the magic. There were theories circulating in auror circles, at least, back home there were, that an attack that targeted either, or both, were possibly attempts to destroy the victim’s very being.

“Sorry,” he started, and willed his own shoulders to fold down to a less forceful position.

“Have a seat, Mr. Scamander. Read those through, please--any alterations or additions will require my signature,” Graves rasped, and moved back to his desk without ever quite turning his back. He sat as carefully as he’d risen, and raised his brows again to find Newt still standing and not reading.

Graves waited until Newt had also taken a seat on one of the chairs -- no more comfortable than they looked, he found with a wince. “I advise you to press for any further necessary privileges or licenses now, while the President and Congress are feeling lenient.”

“I...yes, of course,” Newt managed, because that was possibly the strangest thing he’d heard for a week, and devoted himself to actually reading the thick packet.

“These are _permits_ ,” he choked out a moment later. “This is. This is a permit for a nundu.”

“I was given to understand that you have one in your care. Is that not correct?”

“I--no, it, it is. I. Cleo. But this is...”

“A permit. Yes,” the Director agreed solemnly. The distance made it difficult to discern if there was a laughing look to his face to match the dry note in his voice. It was entirely possible that Newt was hallucinating, given that he’d been handling Swooping Evil venom earlier.

Sweet spellwork, he hoped he’d capped that properly.

“Grindelwald didn’t actually do any paperwork while he was impersonating me, you see. But he did build a file on that case of yours, and there was...what I assume was an incomplete list of creatures.” He waited an odd beat, as though expecting confirmation. Newt blinked at him, not entirely certain what response was required.

Whatever he expected, he didn’t say. Graves continued: “It’s been decided that you’re the most capable wizard that MACUSA knows of to deal with a class 5 beast. Our vault is overflowing with creature contraband of various sorts, and we’ve been under fire from the naturalists for years, ever since Roosevelt opened the national parks for our no-majs. If you’ll continue reading, you’ll find a number of other permits, as well as an offer of retainership.”

“A wh--oh no you _don’t_ ,” he grabbed for the Niffler, not two steps out of the case, and dove for her properly when he missed. “Not again,” Newt vowed, wrestling her into a firm grip against his chest and sitting up. The absolute last thing he needed was for the Director to take offense, not two minutes after offering the only nundu permit in existence.

“That does...explain your reputation,” Percival Graves’ voice said in a sigh from above him--he must have rounded the desk like lightning to be taking a final step closer now.

Come to think of it, he’d probably nearly given the man a heart attack, lunging for the floor like that.

“So-sorry, I, I promise I've got hold of--Nifflers, you see, they, ah, they're handy with, um, wards. I--”

“I've seen my share of Nifflers before, Mr. Scamander, I'm aware of...the difficulties in containing them. I appreciate your expeditiousness. Here,” he rummaged a minute through the desk’s valleys, and down came a brass and glass Sneakoscope, polished to high-shine, straight into the Niffler’s grasping paws and squeaking pleasure. “Not to re-enforce poor behavior, but I’d rather he occupied himself with something that can’t be harmed and won’t be missed until appropriate containment measures can be taken, since I don't trust the warding on all of those cabinets.”

“I. Merlin’s beard.” The ‘scope had to have been an heirloom, it was in the same style as his late grandfather’s and enormous, easily the size of his fist and shiny enough that the Niffler wasn’t even trying to tuck it into her pouch but clutching it as the gleaming victory of the day. She was going to be unbearably smug for _days_ after this.

“I’ll, um. I’ll replace that,” he managed, weak. He was going to have to rethink Peru. Oh dear.

“Certainly not,” Graves decided briskly, and offered a hand to help him up. “The sensory mechanism is completely shot.  It was dismantled with an Unforgivable and glued back together with a half-assed Reparo. It’s been cleaned, of course, but it’ll never run correctly again. He might as well enjoy it.”

His hand might shake, but the grip of it was remarkably strong; Newt could feel the careful pressure and the aiding lift as he let the auror help him up.

“Oh, _that_ , she certainly will. You’ve made her week, if you’re, um. In earnest. But please don’t feel that you must. I can. I can get it back from her, in, in a bit.” Beady eyes turned up in horror, and the little beast clutched it tighter, babbling protest. “Don’t you give me that look, you unrepentant little thief.”

“No, no. There’s no need. I told you, it’s not operable, and there’s little joy I’ll derive from it. He’ll--sorry, you said she. My apologies, little one. She’s welcome to the thing, if it’ll keep her out of the cabinets long enough to discuss this retainership.”

He didn’t know where to marvel first--the papers scattered on the floor, permits for his creatures, or the shock of someone apologizing to a Niffler, even if it was only in jest, or, or, or _this_ \--

“I. Thank you. It’s very--very kind. Re--um. Retainership?

“Retainership,” Percival Graves confirmed, a little smile just barely tugging on the corner of his lips. And...Oh dear. It wasn’t only that he was kind to miscreant creatures, but he smiled with his eyes, too.

 

Oh dear.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!


End file.
